Code Kiss
by xxfatal
Summary: The kisses of their lips taste like ashes in their mouth. A kunoichi character collection. Part 4: She was sane enough to fear him.
1. Paradise: Ino

**Disclaimer: **_Naruto _is not mine. But it is _Kishimoto_'s. (I'm not Kishimoto, either. Darn.)

**Code Kiss**

x

**Paradise**

Yamanaka Ino arched her neck back to allow her impassioned client better access to her sweet-scented skin. She ignored the frenzied kisses, the impatient nips, and the unpleasant, hot spit. She ignored the hands snaking up her waist, searching for the catch on the violet silk dress that clung to her like a second skin.

_1, 2, 3, 4, 5 . . . _

She gasped appropriately when his roaming teeth murmured down her exposed collarbone and down to the strap of her gown. She reached up and fisted her hands into his tuxedo. As she expected, somewhere in the back of her mind, he began to desperately seek the mechanism that would undo her dress. She smiled vaguely. Her eyes continued to carefully count the indentations in the ceiling overhead.

_16, 17, 18, 19 . . ._

Her blonde locks tumbled down to the satin sheets, tendrils of muted gold fanned out amongst the feather-down pillows. She didn't even have to try with this one. He was too desirous of her body to ponder her utter silence, her utter submission. Funny. She smiled with more expression this time. He couldn't see it. They never could. He smelled of fine alcohol and reckless ambition.

_23, 24, 25 . . . _

With hands everywhere at once, she frowned at the thought, that he was ruining her outfit. He insistently jerked down the zipper pressed like kisses against her back. She murmured nothings and hummed softly against his ear. He mistook it for reciprocation. She released a girlish laugh as he fumbled with the glossy material, trying to slip her out of it, so he could satisfy his curiosity. He laughed nervously in response, hands moving faster, sweatier.

_39, 40 . . ._

With tremulous hands, as if he were handling a precious artifact, he freed her shoulders of the silken garment. She smiled cryptically at him, lashes casting sultry shadows on her eyes. Trembling from anticipation, his fumbling lips descended to met hers.

_52 . . ._

Her lips were cold.

"Okay," she said gently, whispers of resolution surfaced underneath. "Stop."

He didn't.

"I said stop."

He did.

The curtain lifted with the accompaniment of a noiseless, winter zephyr. Shallow, gray moonlight spilled into the room, defining the sharp, clean edges of a kunai against his throat. A thin, nearly transparent laceration appeared on his skin as he swallowed, the feeling of ice washing him through.

He mouthed wordlessly, in disbelief, in amazement, in sheer stupidity. He could still see her; she was smiling stoically up at him. She hadn't moved an inch. But . . . this one was . . .

"Wrong girl, sweetheart," breathed the voice holding the blade to his neck.

The imposter beneath his sinful hands dissipated instantaneously, dissolving into wisps of hazy smoke. He tumbled down in fright, slicing open his own throat. Blood stained the air with the scent of iron.

Yamanaka Ino lowered her eyes, not watching the body, not watching the swathes of crimson spill over the edge of the satin sheets. She felt sorry, but she didn't. Sorry that he slipped on her kunai, sorry that he had to die, but not sorry that she had been the one to do it. She'd rather spare the others; she could never see them doing to this. She wondered what they would say, think, do.

It was better this way. Cleaner.

His rapidly clouding eyes sought hers. She met the gaze of a dying man.

_"Slut."_

She chuckled quietly. "Say what you want." Her lips curved up preciously.

_'I'm still a virgin.'_

His open eyes registered minute surprise before they went utterly blank. Dead.

She flicked the blood off her kunai, setting it back into the pouch strapped to her upper thigh. She crossed the threshold and opened the door, not stopping once to regard the man on the bed. She closed the door deftly behind her, and disappeared down the hallway.

_60._

Mission: complete.

(You get sixty seconds in heaven. You get sixty seconds to death.)

_fin._

**A/N:** I'm not too sure if I want to scrap this one. It kind of, uh, sucks. In any case, thank you for reading. Any feedback is greatly appreciated. Have a wonderful day. :)


	2. Killer: Tenten

**A/N:** Dedicated to _Tiempo_, who encouraged me to write different character pieces. And to all who reviewed, I cannot thank you enough; your positive feedback was inspirational. I must admit I was fighting with myself over whether to alter _Code Kiss_ into a collection. I hope this doesn't disappoint.

**Killer**

Tenten did not remember the first person whose blood coated her blade. All she remembers is a spray of blood and dead eyes, eyes pale and dark like a fish. But it wasn't a fish, it was human.

She didn't say anything when she returned from that mission. It was just easier to kill the next time.

So, this time, she effortlessly drew her blade against many throats, as many as she could possibly find and hope they fell before her, without hindering her steps. She did this for many hours; perhaps, for a day and a night. Her aim began to slip; a slick, gory mess amassed before her canvas-blank eyes.

Her eyes began to fear. It was like a sea of dead rising against her from all sides. She could never stop and rest. She realized this was becoming an eternity. Endless slashing, screaming, and dying.

She began to wonder when it would cease; when she would be saved from having to keep pushing and pulling her sword through their hearts. She could no longer see their faces. It was just one, long cry, and black, black blood.

And then she knew she had just become a killing machine.

Tenten screamed. In shock, she bolted upright from the wretched sheets. Cold sweat glazed her clammy skin, a ghastly white in the half-moon light. She fought to reclaim her haggard breaths. Her hands clenched; she could still feel the pressure of a blade in her palm. She could still smell blood.

Tenten curled helplessly against the window sill, face buried in her hands; and she cried.

That was the first night she spent as a killer.

_fin._


	3. Over Coffee: Sakura, Temari

**Over Coffee**

They sat across from each other, at opposite ends of the of small circular table. Sakura traced her finger methodically around the rim of her coffee cup, not looking up. It was the only indication of her restlessness. Temari of the Sand was normally such an intimidating and noble figure; it was a surprise to the pink-haired kunoichi why she would go out of her way to invite her to a _kissaten_.

Temari carefully uncrossed her legs, attempting to appear more sociable. "So, how is your team doing?"

Sakura glanced up, then glanced back down. She exhaled a heavy breath she didn't realize she was holding. "The same." _'Still broken.'_

Temari's hawkish eyes examined her expression closely, but did not judge. Sakura spied a flicker of something like sympathy in them, before they vanished in the mirrored reflection of brown coffee as the Suna nin brought the cup to her lips and took a long sip. They clasped their respective mugs and turned to watch the world beyond the establishment window, equally silent.

Despite the perplexity of the situation, Sakura relished it. Her life was a blur of life and death, colored by mistakes and the reckless hastiness of trying to fix them. It was nice once in a while to sit back and enjoy the view, however ephemeral it was.

"Look, I know you have a lot on your mind," Temari began neutrally. "I apologize for inconveniencing you like this."

As a medic nin, Sakura was, by now, hard-wired to reject any negativity, anything that would seem as if she could not accommodate herself to someone else. "Oh, no. It's nothing at all—" Temari smiled. Sakura's response died on her lips. Temari already knew her, already saw past the shallow self-reassurance and into the chaos curled deep within.

Temari's eyes roved upward, to the ceiling. "I've been thinking a lot lately."

_'Because of all the political unrest,'_ Sakura couldn't help but observe.

"There are some things people might never get to say, after this war happens," Temari said, with a careful expression.

Sakura nodded.

Temari was quiet again, and Sakura didn't have anything to say. They sat in each other's company until half their beverages had been consumed. When the air was finally still, Temari stood, shifting through her back pouches.

"Temari, you don't have to pay for my—" Sakura protested.

"I never got to thank you for saving my brother's life." Temari left the money on the table. "Thank you."

She gave Sakura a short wave and left. Sakura clutched her mug tightly. It felt like the only thing she ever did right.

_fin._

**Note:** A _kissaten_ is a Japanese-style coffee shop, and its ambiance is usually more formal than your average coffee hang-out.


	4. Carrot Blood: Karin

**Carrot Blood**

Karin despised the smell he gave her. She would always hate him for it, she thought vengefully, clutching her knobby child knees to her chest.

She could feel him coming. His chakra was sickly, too overwhelming with a genuine fakeness. Tasted like bile drowned in poisoned sugar. He was bringing her more. She was tired of it, tired of taking those vials of putrid, foreign chakra into her body. It hurt, so much, much, much, much.

How many smells and colors were writhing in her now? Over hundreds, she would guess. A little bit of everyone. So much of everyone that she could distinguish between the mutant brothers with blue lips he had created: Sakon and Ukon.

People were only supposed to have one scent. Everyone in his laboratory had _twothreethousandsfourmaybedozens_. She knew each one of them. Her tiny, skeletal body was familiar; he was trying to see how much she could hold, how attuned to the vile life energy she could become.

Sensitive enough to recognize him on the second visit, sane enough to fear him the third.

The door shrieked open. She squinted dully, blurrily at the shadow of the half-snake half-man. She need glasses. She wanted them. Maybe she didn't. She could already tell who was who. But she wanted to see his face. So she could rip it off with her teeth.

"Hello, Karin," crooned the detestable voice.

She remained silent, narrowing her eyes as he approached. He wasn't afraid of her. He never would be, but she only had so many defenses left.

"How many more?" she demanded of him in her creaky voice.

"I don't know." He smiled, waving the syringe of carrot-blood-smelling chakra in his hand.

"I'm tired," she explained ruefully, clasping a hand over the many hundreds of small holes in her arm.

"It won't hurt a bit."

She let her hand drop, red head hanging down. It always hurt. Always never everytime eternity hurt. _Liar._

He plunged the hypodermic into her bruised flesh. The hissing spirit of someone else's life signature clinked right in to the sea of the other ones. New smell. Another one. She already smelled awful.

"How many more?" she asked.

"I don't know." He smiled.

_fin._

**A/N:** I basically wrote this in two minutes. I'm not going to let it incubate in my computer this time or wait to see how I feel about it in the morning. Going to go out on a limb here and see how laughably (I knew it was a word! but inside joking aside) the discrepancies are. Thank you for reading.


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